


Gone for so long

by Madhattie1312



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madhattie1312/pseuds/Madhattie1312
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's suicide John nose dives into a depression he can't pull himself out of. Suicide sounds awfully enticing to somebody who has nothing to live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone for so long

221 B brought with it the same amount of comfort and pain it always brought John. Right after “the fall” as it was commonly referred to by himself and the few people he still associated with he had taken into consideration many times leaving and going somewhere smaller and more suitable. But every time he was on the brink of deciding to leave for sure he’d have a fond memory or sit in his chair and imagine the sound of a violin. And then it became too much to think that he would be leaving the last piece of him that he had. It was the last shred of evidence that everything that transpired with Sherlock actually ever happened and he couldn’t walk away from the happiest part of his life even though it was cut short so abruptly with one simple act. But it happened and time wore on, some days he would have good memories days where he could almost hear Sherlock talking to him absently, or tinkering in the kitchen with an experiment, or strewn on the couch with hands steepled under his chin. But those days were so very few in number, as most days he was crushed under the weight of an emptiness he couldn’t fill. He went back to his practice as a Doctor, but it was an unfulfilling job used to take up space in his day and pay the rent. And every day he would come home to his quiet, empty flat left very much as it was when Sherlock was alive. He got rid of nothing. Mrs. Hudson inquired of him many times if he was going to get another flat mate. But he couldn’t get one for the same reasons he couldn’t leave. No, this was all he had left of him, and he was determined to keep all of it no matter how painful or detrimental to his “recovery” it was, as his therapist put it. The nightmares returned with new vigor, some nights he was back in the war, other nights he was trying over and over again to save Sherlock, to say something to him to stop him and would wake up with the sickening splattering sound a body makes as it hits pavement. The tremor returned as the humdrum of daily life created a staggering boredom and not long after that the shooting pain in his leg that became debilitating to the degree where he had to get another cane. He lost an obscene amount of weight as he just couldn’t bring himself to eat, there really didn’t seem much point in doing so. Anderson came over sometimes, to try and ask him what he thought of some theories he had about the fall and to ask for painfully specific details about what John saw. And occasionally John would see a glitter in his eye that lit in him some hope that what he was saying might hold some truth. But the longer time went by the bitter disappoint of its impossibility caught up to him until one day he had to ask Anderson to stop coming by. He understood the reason for John’s desire and so he left but not before he stood in front of the open door and turned back to say “I believe in Sherlock Holmes.” The look of mixed understanding, pain, doubt and restless hope left John in a bad way for the following days after Anderson’s final visit. And it is here that we find John nearly two years after the fall and far closer to death than life.  
I woke in a cold sweat panting, I sat up trying to catch my breath as I brought my shaking hands up to my ears as if that could stop the horrible echo in my head of the clear deep “Good bye John” that was reverberating there. Hot tears streamed from my eyes, I thought early on that eventually that they would stop. That I would become numb to it all like how I felt after returning to civilian life. But I was wrong, I felt numb to everything else but this. A sob choked me and I tried to hold it down, to be quiet, even though I knew that was silly. It’s not like I was going to bother anyone with them, I inhaled deeply to calm myself. After a few moments they stopped and I wiped my face dry with the back of my hand. I looked over at the glare of my digital clock, it was past three in the morning, but I had no desire to go back to sleep, not after this particularly vivid nightmare. I grabbed my cane which was leaning on the nightstand beside my bed and limped out of my room and into the kitchen to get some water. Then I stood in the kitchen debating whether or not I should do the deed. It happened at least once a month, sometimes it made me feel better, it brought me to happier times, it was the only few moments my face knew what a smile was, but then the tears would come. They always inevitably came, with more force each time that he did it. But then it was close to the anniversary date of his death and the pull of it was irresistible. I hobbled to his room and opened the door and switched on the light. I felt my heart clench in my chest. During his life I never thought about this small space, and rarely had need to invade it. I sat on his bed and looked around, objects covered in dust from disuse and books still opened to their pages where he had previously been researching. I got up and went to the closet, I opened it, there were all his shirts lined up on their hangers I absently pulled his favorite plum colored shirt off the hanger and looked at it remembering how I was always fascinated at the buttons’ abilities to keep from popping off in every direction. It was such a silly thought I laughed, how had he never noticed that this thing was thrown into a dryer and shrunk one time too many, yet he always managed to wear it so often. I laughed even harder at the mental image of the battle it must have been getting the stupid thing buttoned when he was getting ready. My cheeks ached from the use of muscles so rarely touched, but a smile lingered as I went to the bed to sit again. The shirt was in my hand and I couldn’t explain why I did it. But I just had this feeling, and I wasn’t wrong, it still smelled like him. The crushing blow of its familiarity long gone from my senses returning, felt like a knife straight through my heart. My chest ached and I couldn’t take it, I began to sob instantly my head fell to my hands where I was still grasping the shirt “I miss you…so much” I whispered into it. The immense emptiness of a life without him grew before me and it seemed so utterly worthless a life to live. “I want to be where you are… I don’t think I can bare this anymore Sherlock.” It was the first time I had said his name in more than a year, and it brought a new wave of sobs as it fell onto the emptiness of the room. I curled my knees up into my chest where my hands were now clenching his shirt with such force against my heart it felt like that was the only thing keeping it from falling to pieces. I let the pain flow over me until I was exhausted and hadn’t another tear in me to cry. I lay back on the bed in my weary state and before I knew it I was waking up as the early rays of the morning were shining into the room. I sat up, still with the cloth in my hands, and gently sat it down beside me. I grabbed my cane and left the room shutting the door behind me. I felt how swollen my face was and went to the sink to wash it hoping that would help. I had an appointment with my therapist this morning and was hoping she wouldn’t notice. I got dressed and drank some coffee before leaving the flat.  
“I see you’ve been to his room again.” She looked at me questioningly though she’d put it as a statement. I clenched my hands in my lap and looked down at the floor embarrassed by my transparency. “Yes. I have.”  
“Did you feel like it helped or hindered?” I looked her in the eye and felt my throat close up, I cleared it “It made me come to an interesting realization.” I paused here thinking of how to phrase the next bit. “I’ve decided…to let go…entirely.”

“How do you feel about that, letting go entirely?”  
“Rather good, actually.” I leaned back into the chair and unclenched my fists. I felt the knots loosen in my chest. She had no idea I was misleading her, she looked encouraging, more positive at this apparent sudden change of heart, so hopeful for me. I’d write her a note, let her know it wasn’t anything to do with her doing poorly with me. I just couldn’t be helped, not by her, not by anyone. “How were you thinking of starting this?”  
“I was thinking I would go say goodbye, one last time on the anniversary date…then I’m going to leave, I’ll start preparing this week as the date is almost two weeks away.” I didn’t pay attention to much of what she said after that. I left with a new lightness, the lightness that came from knowing something definitive of having a goal that required completing. I worked and after I came home I wrote letters for the few remaining people I cared for at all, saying I was sorry and thanking them for everything they’ve done. Truth was I wasn’t sorry at all for what I was going to do, I just knew how selfish it was and it was going to hurt others. But it’s okay, deep down I know I won’t be missed for very long. I renewed my will and made arrangements for my funeral, leaving clear directions for where I wanted to be and leaving money to ensure it could be fulfilled. The fateful day came rather quickly and I stood by his grave leaning on my cane with a hand full of fresh flowers. I awkwardly got down on my knees and laid them against his gravestone. I touched the cold stone with my hand, “it won’t be long now, old friend.” I smiled and saw my reflection in the marble. I looked better than I had in a long time, and I was at peace. I used my cane to stand up and took a cab back to the flat. It was only mid-afternoon by the time I had come back and I was unexpectedly greeted by a face that shook my peaceful core. I walked into my flat to be greeted by Mycroft. I’d only seen him twice since the incident. It made my insides turn to see someone with so much of the same demeanor as Sherlock. “Hello, John.” He said as he used an umbrella like a cane to get out of Sherlock’s chair. “I hope you don’t mind I’ve come to collect a few things of my brother’s nothing much mind, just a few articles of clothing really and some odds and ends.” I stood there speechless stuck between not wanting him to leave with one thing though he had more right to them than me and knowing it shouldn’t matter anyways because as of tomorrow he would have been forced to take all of his brother’s belongings or throw them out before a new tenant came to live here. I leaned heavily on my cane gripping it trying to find the right thing to say. “yea, fine, I was thinking of getting rid of some of his things myself soon.”  
“Oh John, you always have been such a poor liar you know.” I saw him examine me up and down “You have fallen quite a ways haven’t you?” I only stood there, looking at him, unable to think of anything to say. “ I know you owe me no favors John, but I need you to do something for me, just this one and I’ll never ask anything again, but it is of absolute importance to me and not very difficult for you.” I was curious “what is it?” His look fell from its usual coldness to a look of emotion I’m sure he hadn’t let anyone see before. It was concerned and pleading “don’t do this. Not tonight, just give it one more week I…” he paused here and collected himself like this was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say “I’m begging you.” He looked around the room as if making sure no one but John had heard. He grabbed the bag of things he collected off the floor and started heading towards the door. I managed to spit out a “why?” as he was opening the door. He turned to look at me “I’m leaving the country tonight, it is urgent I must leave now but, there was something I was suppose to tell you in the event of his death, under certain circumstances. One of them has come up, you’ll want to hear it.” I was baffled “and you can’t tell me now or for that matter you couldn’t have told me sooner?!”  
“You weren’t ready for it sooner and no, I have stayed too long as it is, a matter of national importance, you understand. But I promise it will be worth your while, if you wait.” With that he turned and left. I stood dumbfounded staring at the closed door until my leg ached and had to move to the chair to sit. I stared across from me at the dusty empty green one and asked it “why now of all times has this come up? And what does he mean by all this, needing to talk to me about a…message in the event of your death? What could you possibly have to tell me Holmes?” But I couldn’t help it, though everything had been planned I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hear what Mycroft had to tell me. So I anxiously waited all week, imagining what it could be, if it would change anything at all. But the days passed with a slowness I hadn’t had to bear my whole life. Then day eight arrived and nine and I was wondering what was taking him so bloody long, keeping me waiting like this was agony! On the tenth day I went to work as usual, and came home hoping to find him sitting in my living room as I had every night, I pushed the door open and was yet again greeted by a lifeless empty room. I couldn't help but wonder if it was a lie to just get me to not do it. One more day, I’ll give him one more day then I’m leaving. I made myself some tea, read the paper and went to bed early. I texted Mycroft before I plugged my mobile into the charger.  
"You have one day." He responded within seconds "that’s all I need." It took me over two hours of anxious tossing and turning before I fell asleep and it wasn’t long before I was woken up by the sound of a violin. I thought I was dreaming at first, but as I woke up more and realized the sound wasn't lessening but in fact increasing over time I sat up to listen. It was a familiar piece of music, I felt my chin quiver of its own accord and my chest tighten. It must be Mycroft, though I have never known him to play as his brother had. He should know better than to do that considering how he’d seen me last, though this might be the politest way he knows to wake me up. He had never really been one for manners though. I would just as easily expect him to come poke me with the end of his umbrella to wake me. I pulled on some trousers and grabbed my cane. As I walked into the living room I called “Mycro-” but my words were cut off abruptly by the shock of what was standing before me. It was still dark; the middle of the night and a lone light was on shining on a figure that could only be my imagination. It wasn't Mycroft; it was the far superior, well-known silhouette, of a man long dead. He was facing the window in his coat, he stopped playing the second he heard my voice. He mechanically pulled the violin down from his chin and set it in front of him on a table ever so carefully along with the bow. He turned slowly on his heel and put his hands behind his back. My free hand came to rest over my quivering mouth and as I saw his face I fell instantly to my knees dropping my cane. This was a hallucination of the cruelest and kindest kind. I had finally snapped, I was wondering when it was going to happen, it was only a matter of time. As I looked up he stood there looking imperious as he ever had with his piercing blue eyes. I heaved a deep breath and felt my body shake and hot tears fall down my face, I closed my eyes and hung my head. This isn’t real, he’s not real, you’re going to open your eyes and he’s going to disappear. I heard footsteps come quickly over to me and I shook my head. It isn’t real, it isn’t real. I heard him drop to his knees in front of me and felt his hands grasp my shoulders. I couldn’t contain my sobs any more, they came out in choking gasps and I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes. “John?” His voice came out softly, barely above a whisper. I fell forward into what I was certain would be thin air, but instead found my head resting on a firm shoulder. I felt arms wrap around me and pull me in close. “You’re not real” I managed to gasp out into his shoulder. I shook my head “you’re not real.” His arms tightened around me and I felt him shutter, I looked up at him and saw tears streaking down his face and he was trying to bite his lip so as to not make any sound. He opened his eyes then and looked down at me. “I’m so sorry John.” His voice was low “I had to, I…Your life was at stake… I couldn’t come back until you were safe.” His hand came up and wiped tears from my face, he smiled. “I promise I will never leave you again.” He leaned his forehead against mine and I took a steadying breath. I wrapped my arms around him and returned my head to its spot on his shoulder. I was shaken and still a little disbelieving. But I was holding onto something undeniably solid and I had no intention of letting go any time soon. “I owe Mycroft my life now thanks to you. He has done me an unspeakable service. You can’t imagine what I would have done had I come home to find you so, to think I had just been slightly too late.” I felt fresh tears of his fall upon my face he shook slightly and gripped me tighter. Minutes of silence went by, and with it more passed between us than words could have ever done justice. Our tears dried and we basked in the reality that we had both longed for, for so long. When words finally breached the silence they were Sherlock’s. “I do have one question though.” I looked up at him, “just one?” he nodded tersely and pulled away slightly to look down at me. “What the devil have you done to my favorite shirt?” He cocked an eyebrow and I burst into laughter, I felt his body vibrate against mine in a low chuckle which grew like mine into a full blown laughing fit as we sat, crooked and cramped locked in each other’s arms, which is where we stayed for the rest of the night.


End file.
